ile with the friends of his youth. We
showed him our modest rural lions; we got him such sport and company as
our quiet neighbourhood afforded, we gave him fishing in the Brawl, and
Laura in her pony-chaise drove him to Baymouth, and to Clavering Park
and town, and visit the famous cathedral at Chatteris, where she was
pleased to recount certain incidents of her husband's youth.

Clive laughed at my wife's stories; he pleased himself in our home; he
played with our children, with whom he had became a great favourite; he
was happier, he told me with a sigh, than he had been for many a day.
His gentle hostess echoed the sigh of the poor young fellow. She was
sure that his pleasure was only transitory, and was convinced that many
deep cares weighed upon his mind.

Ere long my old schoolfellow made me sundry confessions, which showed
that Laura's surmises were correct. About his domestic affairs he did
not treat much; the little boy was said to be a very fine little boy;
the ladies had taken entire possession of him. "I can't stand Mrs.
Mackenzie any longer, I own," says Clive; "but how resist a wife at such
a moment? Rosa was sure she would die, unless her mother came to her,
and of course we invited Mrs. Mack. This time she is all smiles and
politeness with the Colonel: the last quarrel is laid upon me, and in
so far I am easy, as the old folks get on pretty well together." To me,
considering these things, it was clear that Mr. Clive Newcome was but a
very secondary personage indeed in his father's new fine house which
he inhabited, and in which the poor Colonel had hoped they were to live
such a happy family.

But it was about Clive Newcome's pecuniary affairs that I felt the most
disquiet when he came to explain these to me. The Colonel's capital and
that considerable sum which Mrs. Clive had inherited from her good old
uncle, were all involved in a common stock, of which Colonel Newcome
took the management. "The governor understands business so well, you
see," says Clive; "is a most remarkable head for accounts: he must have
inherited that from my grandfather, you know, who made his own fortune:
all the Newcomes are good at accounts, except me, a poor useless devil
who knows nothing but to paint a picture, and who can't even do
that." He cuts off the head of a thistle as he speaks, bites his
tawny mustachios, plunges his hands into his pockets and his soul into
reverie.

"You don't mean to say," asks Mr. Pendennis,